Since 2006, when Home Depot #3303 opened in Spanish Springs, my federally-issued Veterans Administration military identification has always garnered me a ten percent discount on all products but wood at the chain box store. No longer.

The discount was the only reason I had for going to Home Depot instead of Ace or Big R Supply.

As I prepared to pay for a new garbage disposal and kitchen faucet set, I learned that showing my card no longer worked because the company had removed the ‘veterans discount key’ from the register. Instead, Home Depot wants military veterans to register a telephone number to access the discount.

Not only will I not do it, I can’t do it. Filling out forms, regardless of length, virtually or in hand, causes me anxiety. In turn, this feeds into my Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD,) and once my PTSD is triggered, for lack of a better descriptor, I am pretty much done until I can get it and myself back under control.

Also, being a ‘conspiracy theorist,’ who has been correct at least 90 percent of the time, meaning those theories, once poo-poo’d, have turned out to be fact, having to register my cell phone number to get a discount seems nefarious. After all, when the federal and state governments shut down the U.S. economy during the pandemic, Home Depot was deemed essential and was allowed to remain open.

That fact has always seemed suspicious, as churches, playgrounds, and golf courses were not. And suspicion being what it is, my mind immediately drew a line from registering my cell number to a possible list of collected veteran addresses that could be accessed at any time by God-only-knows-who and for whatever reason.

Unfortunately, I have taken the circuitous route to explain that Home Depot has lost my business. My freedom from lists the federal government may or may not have access to is more important than any discount the company could offer me. Call me paranoid, but I will take my business to the local mom-and-pop hardware store from here on out, which is better for the local economy.

So now, it is time to warm up my vocal cords before I begin installing the garbage disposal because I don’t want to hurt myself as I yell, scream, and cuss up a storm at how uneasy it is supposed to be putting in an easy-to-install appliance.

Hopefully, this will make sense, as I am still pretty tired after Saturday and Sunday’s escapade. Since I was ahead in all of my newspaper writing assignments, I thought I’d treat myself to a little “me time,” by heading over to California’s Gold Country and visiting the back roads of Calaveras County.

Calaveras County is home to Angel’s Camp, where Mark Twain first heard the tale he would turn into the best-selling book, “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.”

Stopping on Highway 49 between Scottsville and Big Bar, I parked, put on my day pack, then hiked into the forest in a southwest direction. It was 7:30 in the morning, and I didn’t think I’d be gone longer than four or five hours, returning home long before sunset.

I was wrong.

Somehow, I became disoriented, lost my sense of direction, and since it was getting too dark to continue walking, I found a large tree and set up a cold camp between the roots. I sat between them and waited for darkness to overcome the entire forest.

With my bag, I also had some snack bars, two gallons of water, one of the containers mostly gone by the time I called it quits for the day, my U.S. Marine Corps wobbie, also known as a poncho liner, and my K-Bar knife. It wasn’t much, but I was sure it would get me through the night.

Checking my phone, it was about ten at night, and I knew Mary would be worried. I was right, as after I got home, I learned she had called to report me missing, as I had left her a note telling her where I was heading.

As the night became the early morning, I catnapped, dosing off-and-on, but never allowing myself to fall into a deep sleep. I held my K-Bar in my lap in case something came out of the night to surprise me.

It was about one or so when I sensed I was not alone. It began as an odor, that of a wet dog, grew into the smell of a skunk, then the stink of rotten eggs.

With the moon being a sliver, there was not enough light to see what accompanied me, but I could hear its breathing, so I knew I had company. Battling my instinct to yell at it, scare it off, or cause it to attack me, I stayed still, studying the darkness and hoping to catch a shadow that would let me know what I was dealing with.

Finally, I saw a touch of movement, and then I wish I hadn’t. It was massive and resting less than 15 feet from me.

I sat still and slowed my breathing, knowing that if I panicked, I could get killed. It was like a “Mexican stand-off,” which of us would be the first to blink?

Still, whatever was across from me breathed deeply and calmly, something I tried to emulate.

As sunshine began to poke between the trees, I heard, but never saw, my guest, get up with a soft grunt and walk away from where we sat. Still, I sat in place, my ass and legs numb, refusing to move until I could see everything around me.

Finally, feeling secure that I could navigate back to the highway since I knew where the sun was shining from, I headed in its direction. I kept my ears open to any noise behind me or the sudden silencing of the forest that would denote the presence of a predator or something.

It took me four hours to find the road, and my truck, after I started walking the wrong way, only to have a deputy stop and ask my name. He took me to my vehicle, where a search-and-rescue team was readying to look for me.

Still, without service, I thanked my would-be rescuers and headed back toward Scottsville. In town, my phone went wild with 22 messages from Mary and another dozen from law enforcement.

While getting something to eat, I called her to let her know I was okay and would tell her all when I got home. I could tell by the sound of her voice she was relieved to learn I was okay.

Home never looked so good as I pulled into the driveway and climbed from my truck. I can think of little better than being greeted by a happy wife and an excited dog to make a man feel welcome.

As for the thing in the forest, I am concluding that if it was not my overwrought imagination and not Bigfoot, it must have been St. Michael, Guardian Angel of Marines, keeping me company. It wouldn’t be the first time Big Mike has pulled my bacon out of the fire.

Once again, I am behind in my work, but you know, I’m okay with that.

Well, I saw the lights of Virginia City and the Union Saloon
All I need is this street lamp to keep me from a fanciful swoon
I drank my fill from the Carson River, where the mercury flows
In booze-baked moonlight, and lost my mind wherever it blows.

So, if you be a rockabilly gal, I’ll be your raging dragon
And we can walk together down in the Six Mile Canyon
And we can waltz along the Comstock Highway
Hear the coyotes yip and fuck with wild abandon.

Well, I tied myself into a knot, whiskey drinking so fine
Suddenly coming undone should have stuck with the wine
No recall of Saint Mary’s bell’s ring; the C Street shuffle
The boardwalk to Silver Dollar Club or the fist-a-cuff scuffle.

Those women, how do I smile at their glorious thought
Large and small-breasted, big ol’ butt, the camel-toed lot
Oh, how I could get myself stabbed, then damn near shot
So if you are a secret freak, I’ll fill you with my manly snot.

It’s been nearly three years since I lost my way
Not once have I heard a ten-penny tinkled play
I’d try to sing along, a burlap sack to carry the tune
Sniff at her grass, bark up her tree, howl at her moon.

On a bender one night in front of Red Dog
She was a princess while I was the frog
I leaned in for a kiss to become a new prince
A chorus of spirits loosed, drunk on Absinthe.

So, look to the old west, the Virginia City route
You don’t need a condom when out on the scout
Because there is more mud and less in romance
Where old fucks like me don’t have half a chance.

You can watch as I drive down Gieger Grade
The moon, the stars, and me failing to get laid
Forget about Six Mile as I wander back home
To dream of her lips, of trailer hitch and chrome.

“Alright, I’m heading to the center,” Brady said.

Okay,” Mary returned. “Don’t forget your hat.”

It was promising to be a sunny, hot July day, and she always worried about him burning his head and getting skin cancer. Tom lifted it from the nail next to the door, the only thing on the bare walls of their 225-square-foot Section 8 housing.

Tom pulled the door closed and locked it. He had a twenty-minute walk ahead of him, a thought he laughed at.

“Guess they forgot about us old folk when they planned these 15-minute towns,” he chuckled.

It was his 72nd birthday, and he had to get the only license he needed since the Treaty of Albuquerque, ending World War III, became effective over five years before. They had stripped his and Mary’s driving privileges when they confiscated their gas-operated vehicles, so having a First Amendment permit was all that Tom needed.

Mary had her First Amendment ‘R’ license for reading as she did not like writing. She had just renewed hers four months ago.

Only two people were ahead of Tom when he took his number, 2854, and sat down. It would be another half hour before being flashed on the overhead screen.

“Hello,” the brown-haired, blue-eyed dark-skinned woman sitting behind the counter said as he approached. “Please, have a seat.”

Brady did.

“What can I do for you today, Mr. Brady?” she asked.

Facial recognition was everywhere, so it didn’t surprise him that she should know his name before he even had a chance to speak. The idea still gulled him.

“I need to renew my First Amendment ‘W’ license,” he said.

“Very well,” the woman said. “Please plug in your handheld device.”

Tom pulled it from his pocket and hooked it to the chord that sprouted from the desk. The device once called a cell phone, beeped and flashed twice.

“Thank you, Mr. Brady,” the woman said.

He said nothing.

“Is everything current?” she asked as she turned her screen around.

Tom looked it over before answering, “Yes, it is.”

The woman was far too polite for his liking and had not engaged in small talk. That alerted Tom that the woman was an artificially intelligent humanoid, commonly called a Synth.

She tapped away on her keyboard before looking at him and saying, “Our records indicate that you have not published any work in the past five years. Is this correct?”

“Yes, it is,” Brady answered. “I journal just for myself and not for the public.”

The Synth typed more into her keyboard before stating, “I’m sorry, but we cannot reissue you a ‘W’ license because you have not published anything to SkyNet for over one-thousand-eight-hundred and twenty-five days.”

“But I’ve never had to publish anything before,” he said.

“The law was altered on Thursday, January one of this year,” she said.

“I wasn’t aware of that,” Brady said.

“It was in the news,” the Synth stated.

His face turned red with anger, but he avoided saying what he was thinking, an obscenity-laced invective costing him a fine of 25 Ameros, the new cyber money created after the United States merged with Mexico and Canada.

“I don’t watch the news or listen to that silly radio you guys gave me, in fact, I don’t even have Internet or a screen,” Brady commented.

“I am very sorry,” the Synth said.

“Is there any way I can get a waiver, so I can get something published and get my license?” he asked.

“We do not issue waivers, Mr. Brady,” she said.

“God, I wish it would stop with the mister,” Brady thought.

“So how can I get my license?” he asked.

“You have to publish something to the SkyNet,” she said.

“But I have to have a license to do that,” he argued.

She looked at him blankly, then asked, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No,” Brady said, rising from his seat.

As he started for the door, the Synth said, “Happy birthday, Brady.”

He took his time walking home.

Halfway there, it occurred to him that the Synth had called him Brady and excluded the mister.

“Holy shit, now they can read minds,” Brady thought as he felt a cold wave race through his body.

When he unlocked the front door, he hung up his hat.

“So how’d it go?” Mary asked.

“It went great,” Brady lied, kissing her forehead before sitting in his chair and staring at the blank wall, in front of himself.

The California Gold Rush of the mid-19th century remains one of the most iconic events in American history as thousands set out on a perilous journey westward, driven by dreams of striking it rich in the goldfields. Among the resources they relied on was “The Emigrants’ Guide to California” by Joseph E. Ware, published in 1849.

It provided suggestions and estimates for supplies needed during the arduous trek along the California Trail. Ware’s guide, a valuable piece of history, outlined the essentials for four individuals traveling with mule teams. It itemized everything from wagons and mules to food provisions and cooking utensils, providing estimated costs for each item.

Wagon, harness, and six good mules:

• Wagon: $85.00
• Three sets of harness: $24.00
• Mules: $450 ($75 each)
• Wagon cover painted with two coats: $8.00

Total $567.00

Food Provisions:

• Flour – 821 lbs: $16.48
• Coffee – 160 lbs: $5.25
• Bacon – 725 lbs: $36.25
• Lard and suet – 200 lbs: $12.00
• Sugar – 160 lbs: $8.00
• Beans 120 lbs: $1.60
• Peaches and apples, 135 lbs: $3.20
• Salt and pepper at 25 lbs: $1.00

Total: $83.78

Cooking Utensils and Extras:

• Tin plates, spoons, coffee pot, camp kettle, knives, and extras:

Total: $20.00

Total: $670.78

According to the guide’s estimates, the cost to each individual for the journey, after deducting the value of the wagon, teams, and other equipment at the end of the trip, would be $55.19.

However, despite the meticulous planning and calculations, the reality on the trail proved far different from what the guide had envisioned. This stark contrast comes to light in the candid diary entry of Bennett C. Clark, who penned his thoughts on Fri., Jul. 20, 1849.

In his journal, Clark voiced growing disappointment in the journey, expressing reservations about the quality of the grass along the Humboldt River. It was contrary to the assurances provided by Ware’s guide.

Clark’s disillusionment led him to caution future travelers against placing blind trust in the guide and labeling it as “perfectly worthless.”

Reading Clark’s diary entry alongside Ware’s guide offers us a perspective on the experience during this remarkable chapter in history. Today, “The Emigrants’ Guide to California” remains a treasure, a window into the past, and a testament to the ambitions and struggles of those who embarked on the California Trail.

When asked to come to her Easter celebration party, I said no, because I had too much work left for the newspaper to do. When I next saw Valery Lyman, I had a change of heart and asked if the invite were still open.

“Oh, I’m so glad you changed your mind,” she said as I accepted.

Having been in a depressive mood for seven months, I told myself I would not stay long, making a polite appearance before leaving as early as possible. I ended up staying until nine in the evening.

The change started the moment I shadowed her door frame. Her first words caught me off guard and caused laughter.

“Happy Christmas!” Valery fairly shouted, despite it being Easter.

When someone pointed out what she had said, Valery blushed, “I said that?”

More laughter. And honestly, since I had not laughed like that in months, it felt good.

After noshing some cheese, bread, and olives, Valery informed her guests, Tom Gray, Alexia Sober, Rudi Stueger, Bill Finley, her boyfriend Tony, and myself, that we were embarking on an Easter egg hunt. At first, I hesitated, thinking I should have left earlier, but I soon discovered I would have missed out on a fun moment of life had I bailed.

For twenty minutes, we adults, behaving like young kids, searched high and low, every nook and cranny of our surroundings from under low-laying stones, under propane tanks, in cable television wires, and even along the walls of the Storey County Courthouse. I had not been on an Easter egg hunt since nine-years-old, since I had to help my sisters find eggs at the annual hunt held at Margaret Keating School in Klamath.

I found the second top-winning egg, a free-range one dipped in several layers of silver paint that won me some truffle oil and two packets of flower seed, while Tony located the Gold, the big prize, for what prize as Valery’s boyfriend I can only imagine he won.

After we finished, we returned for a portrait sitting conducted by Valery, using her Kodak Brownie, shooting 620 black and white. She blessed me by trusting me to take the final frame of the roll so she could be in a photograph too.

Unfortunately, Alexia, Tom, and Bill left a short time after.

It was approaching sunset, the bright orb of the day starting to touch the upper edge of Mt. Davidson, when Valery invited me to stay for dinner. She served duck, potatoes, and artichoke, for which I was allowed to offer the meal prayer.

After dinner, Eric, myself, Tony, and Valery sat and chatted. Upon the first yawn that escaped Valery, I excused myself from the dinner table, thanked my hostess for a grand day, and left for home.

Shaking hands with Tony and Rudi, I half-whispered, “Happy Christmas,” in Valery’s ear as I hugged her goodnight. She smiled a sleepy smile.

A warm feeling lingered within me all the way home with me, and when I remember back on the celebration, the same comes upon me again.

Nevada State Senate District 5’s Republican State Senator Carrie Buck voted in favor of Senate Bill 131, a bill that eliminates the ability of any healthcare licensing board to investigate or disqualify unsafe abortionists from practicing in Nevada.

Buck ran on the GOP ticket as a pro-life candidate. She has proven to be a Republican-In-Name-Only, a RINO, and worse, a liar.

Nevada Senate Majority Leader Nicole Cannizzaro, a Communist-Democrat, is the primary sponsor of the bill, along with four other Democratic senators. A list of 36 other Communist-Democrats cosponsored the bill.

It is also important to note that this bill was heard at 8 a.m. on Mon., Feb. 20, by the Senate Commerce and Labor Committee and not by the Senate Health and Human Services Committee. It is another example of how Communist-Democrats are destroying the Constitutional Republic system.

While in North Carolina for military training as a youth, I was bored with the hum-drum barracks life, so I went to the beach. While walking in the tidal plains, I hit upon capturing some sand fleas in a short jar.

They were easy to catch as they jumped into the glass prison willingly. All I had to do was leave it open, and before long, I had dozens locked under the screw-down lid.

Once back at the barracks, I set my mini-menagerie on my desk and left them for three. Then I took them outside and opened the jar.

Not one of the damned things leaped high enough to escape their captivity. It only took about three days to retrain their thinking that they could go no higher than the lip level of the jar.

On that day, as I turned the jar upside down and freed my small experiment subjects, I decided I would never be like a sand flea, reconditioned and trapped by someone else’s enforced belief system. And while it hasn’t always worked out when I recognize the trap, I know it is time to think outside the jar.

It started with a photograph posted by Nevada’s Republican Chairwoman Sigal Chattah on social media titled, “Say cheese President Sandoval and Governor Joe Lombardo.” It was taken during UNR Wolfpack Day at the Nevada Legislature on Mon., Apr. 3

That is all it read. However, self-proclaimed campaign consultant Chuck Muth took umbridge, asking, “Why is the new Nevada Republican National Committeewoman taking cheap shots at the new Nevada Republican Governor, who’s been in office just three months and has proposed school choice, election reform, getting tough on crime and no tax hikes?”

Chattah made Muth live up to his ‘accusation,” replying, “Why do you think this is a cheap shot? I didn’t know that posting a picture of two Republican governors tagged “Birds of a feather” [was] a cheap shot. A cheap shot of what Chuck? Maybe you can explain why you feel this is a cheap shot.”

For his part, Muth took the cowardly way out, continuing to ‘imply,’ “For those who get it, no explanation is needed. It doesn’t take a mind-reader to know what you were implying.”

And if she is implying ‘that,’ she is right. Sandoval kissed the ass of Dems, and now Lombardo is ass-kissing the same Democrats. Both want to be ‘liked,’ and the more liked RINOs become, the further our fall beneath the Communistic rule of the Democrats.

He is another Sandoval, promising one thing, like fixing Nevada DOT and giving us another, giving the department a raise and praising their failure.

Bud Light, a beverage pretending to be a beer while featuring a man pretending to be a woman.